Please Don't Go
by GKingOfFez
Summary: At the one moment it matters, Sherlock sees but he does not observe. Character death. 221B drabbles.
1. Blood

_Inspired by a picture of Sherlock cradling John's body. _

_There will be a part two._

…

In the darkened alley, Sherlock sees absolutely nothing but the gun in Moran's large, tattooed hand. In an instant, he observes everything about it; the make, the model, where it's made, even the exact measurement of the barrel and the brand of silencer attached to it, but the one detail he cares about in this moment is where it's pointing- straight at John Watson's heart.

Before he realises it, Sherlock's feet are moving, and he is jumping out to tackle the ex-sniper to the ground. Only when he's sure the man is immobilised with a teeth-shattering punch to the face does he return to his feet to face his doctor, whom he has spent three long years living in hell-holes, skirting through war-zones and generally doing whatever it took to weed out Moriarty's network for. He smiles somewhat sheepishly.

John is unsteady on his feet, eyes wide at the sight of him. The familiar silver cane topples to the ground, and Sherlock puts his trembling down to the shock of seeing his best friend back from the dead.

"Sher-sherl-" And then the man crumbles, and the consulting detective catches him and gently lowers him down to the ground. John is barely conscious and still shaking, and for the first time, Sherlock notices a dark liquid seeping through his oatmeal jumper.

Blood.

…


	2. Bastard

_Looks like there shall be a part three... :)_

_Swearing in this one._

...

Then it is all painfully clear. The silencer, a reflex action, the blood, everything.

"Sher-Sherlock-"John wheezes, struggling limply and eyes wider than is natural, but Sherlock restrains him with shaking hands (_shock, get a grip of yourself_), then places said hands over the wound (_left side of chest, fractured ribs, burst lung, broken heart?_), applying pressure to staunch the flow of blood.

"Don't be an idiot, John. Save your strength, you've been shot."

"N-no shit I have," John says with a stuttered laugh. "Are-aren't you s-supposed to be de-dead?"

Sherlock pauses, contemplating his words carefully. "I was. I got better, though," he finally says, deeming humour the acceptable response.

_Just like you will,_ he thinks in his mind. _Please don't die._

John's laugh turns morphs from a humorously bitter chuckle to a whooping cough, then finally dissolves into a hard, whistling intake of breath that sounds suspiciously like a sob (_definitely something wrong with the left lung.)_

"Three years," he whispers.

"I know, I'm sorry," Sherlock replies. His hands are now soaked through with blood.

"No, th-three _fucking_ years-s, Sherlock. Don-don't think you can just-" John takes a great, wheezing breath, "-just waltz back i-into my life and ex-ex-expect-"

"Shut up, John! Be mad at me later if you wish, but now is not the time, please," Sherlock hisses desperately.

"…b-bastard."


	3. Bang

_Sorry for the wait. :p _

_Here, have an emotion-destroying cliffhanger with an undetermined time period for the next chapter. _

_You're welcome. 3_

...

Sherlock is so focussed on John and the bloody bullet wound that the faint shuffling behind him goes unnoticed, at least until it's too late. John cries out a yelp of warning at the last second, and the former consulting detective turns around just in time to dodge the bullet that goes whizzing past, rolling away from his doctor to do so.

He finds Moran, awake and livid, standing over him with a swelling coming through on his already thick face. The marksman is unsteady on his feet (_possible concussion_) as he aims again, and this bullet skins Sherlock's arm as he scrambles back to his feet. The third aim takes a sluggishly slow time (_definitely a concussion, vision obviously blurring, concentration slipping_) but the _click click click_ of an empty cartridge rings through the alley, and is like a violin solo to Sherlock's ears. He takes a second to glance back at John, who has turned a pasty grey upon the floor.

"Well, I guess you're right out of luck, aren't you, Moran?" Sherlock laughs, though the situation is anything but funny to him.

"No, Holmes," Moriarty's last henchman snarls, looking far too triumphant, "If anyone is out of luck here, it is you."

Then Moran pulls out another pistol, and points it, not at Sherlock, but at John.

Bang.


	4. Believe

_Here, have another chapter. For once, I actually had trouble __**making**__ the limit, so, yeah. _

_Not the last chapter, not quite yet, but we're nearly there. _

_Enjoy (or become sobbing wrecks, I don't mind either way!)_

...

Sherlock knows, before the bullet hits its mark, before the last guttural spluttering gasp of John Watson echoes through the dirty, bloodstained alleyway, that there is nothing he can physically do to stop the small metal slug's deadly trajectory. He knows, because he observes it soar, because he can name the exact millimetre length of the barrel and the bullet, and the factory where it was made and the velocity and speed at which it travels. He knows, because he can list the arteries that are ripped to shreds in John's heart, just from the angle and position of impact, and he knows from the way the former army doctor goes limp upon the floor that his best friend will never move again.

Sherlock has failed, a lifetime's work of observation undone in seconds. At the _one_ moment it had mattered, he had seen, but he hadn't observed; he _should_ have made _sure_ Moran had been properly incapacitated (or killed him when he had the chance), should have noticed John was injured straight away (the signs had been so obvious, how could he be so _stupid_?), should have called in an ambulance and back-up when the man had first collapsed.

But the great Sherlock Holmes had done none of that.

Sherlock knows that John is-

He knows, but he doesn't believe.


	5. Burn

_Nearly there, I think. Couple more to go. :) _

_I think you've learned by now what I really mean when I say 'enjoy!'_

...

The next three crucial seconds following Moran's shot are the longest Sherlock has ever experienced in his life, and in the years following he would remember them with a play-by-play clarity. Second number one is filled with a horrid, ear ringing silence in the wake of the bang of the bullet. Second number two has Moran turning and fleeing with a deep, mocking laugh, while second number three sees Sherlock on the concrete at John's side just in time to hear the old doctor's last rattling breath.

The former-detective has seen death before. He's seen it in the corpses he'd investigated, in the idiot man who'd ran himself into a mine field and the body count of Moriarty's men that had piled up over the last three years. He'd ensured Mr Hudson's demise, left someone on death row to his deserving fate, and watched a cabbie (that John had shot) bleed to death beneath him.

He cries, and because it is an emotional output that he hasn't used in a while, he cries hard. He's seen death before, but not like this. Never like this. He hadn't cared about any of those other people, those means to ends, just rotting hunks of useless meat he used to advance his mental state, because none of them were his friend.

The tears burn.


End file.
